


The One Where House (Sort Of) Gets His Comeuppance

by zulu



Series: Parrot's Genderfuck [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: 08-08, Genderfuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-21
Updated: 2008-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foreman, by changing back, had ruined all House's fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where House (Sort Of) Gets His Comeuppance

**Author's Note:**

> Set contiguously with deelaundry's [The One Where It All Ends](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/95652.html).

**The One Where House (Sort Of) Gets His Comeuppance**

The morning that Foreman swaggered into the Diagnostics office, taller, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit perfectly tailored to show off both his flat stomach and, probably most importantly, the bulge in his pants, every second of all that "Oh my God, I'm a woman now" arousal that House had been reveling in for weeks hit him like a tidal wave.

He managed to curl his lip, and he made doubly sure to make sure the first thing out of his mouth was an eager, "So does this mean Cuddy has breasts again?"

"No," Foreman snorted, and crossed his arms (a move, House thought, he'd borrowed from Cuddy, because it had the exact same effect. It made his biceps ripple under his suit, it emphasized his pecs, and it made House kind of want to bite down on his collarbone).

"Well, at least we still have Chase's," he said, and promptly proceeded to stare. He was secretly relieved that Chase's breasts hadn't lost their allure. For whatever reason, he hadn't gotten up close and personal with them during this entire bit of madness, but that made the appeal even better. There was mystery there. Mystery, and supple, rounded, soft-skinned flesh, and nipples that he could only guess were a perfect coral pink.

Actually, mysteries were stupidly overrated. House started planning Chase's seduction. He'd gotten as far as how he would compliment Chase on a doctorly job well done (a surefire winner of a pickup line). Then he'd lock them in an empty room and invite Chase to show off any other talents he might have, possibly involving his tongue, which was currently twining obscenely around a stir stick that House definitely wasn't jealous of. He was interrupted in these crucial ruminations when Wilson walked into the room, saw Foreman, and freaked out.

House had a feeling it wasn't quite the same as his own personal freakout. Wilson looked a lot more horrified and a lot less like he was fighting not to jump Foreman and getting a hand down his pants. Well, that was scientific curiosity speaking, anyway. Clearly, in the name of medicine, House needed to see (and touch, and possibly nibble) what he'd missed out on the day he and Foreman had practically destroyed a clinic exam room. And the ER on-call room. And the backseat of Foreman's car. And Foreman's couch.

Funnily enough, they'd never made it to the bed.

Well, anyway, the freakout had a lot more to do with Wilson's stupid desire to procreate (with Cameron, of all people; Wilson really should have chosen someone with fewer emo-geekboy genes, in House's considered opinion) than it had to do with Foreman's sudden return to the facial hair and fondness-for-fellatio side of the fence.

But the fact was, Wilson was pregnant, Cameron was the father, and House was the one in charge of making sure Wilson didn't turn back into a man before the tyke made its doubtlessly very confused way into the world.

\--

House loved being a lesbian. "Face it," he said to Wilson, when he sneaked into the clean room to calm him down from his 'what if I wake up a man and am childless forever' panic, "you wouldn't give this up."

"Nnrgh," was Wilson's answer, as House alternated the pressure of the three fingers he had up Wilson's cunt ("Routine exam," House had said over Wilson's not-very-strenuous objections, before proceeding to examine every inch of his breasts--already fuller and rounder and _oh god_\--with his mouth.) Since Wilson wasn't arguing, House licked his way across his clit, playing Wilson's g-spot like a power chord, until his body shook with his orgasm and left him in a much better frame of mind to deal with the whole pregnancy thing.

Then House generously let him return the favour.

Women's bodies, whether they were Wilson's or Cuddy's or Chase's (or Foreman's, his mind piped up, along with several delectable images of same), were just so much fun. Nearly two months in to the whole weirdness, and House still couldn't get over his own breasts, much less anyone else's. He'd found that his nipples got even more sensitive when he was ovulating, so that even the briefest, lightest touch--or Wilson's shaky breath right before he slid the tip of his tongue across the peak--was so overpowering that his clit throbbed and his legs went weak at the knees. His breasts ached a bit then, too, but that just made him more aware of them. He could fill out a top (or find a bra that made it _look_ like he could fill out a top) in ways that made everyone, man or woman, wacky-switcheroo or not, sit up and take notice.

The period itself was no fun. He couldn't find _anybody_ willing to go down on him then. Well, okay, it wasn't like _he_ would have, but seriously, it was unfair that he lost nearly a whole week of cunnilingus to his new biology. But there were still hands, and toys. Cuddy had rolled her eyes until House sucked her off, bringing her right to the edge, and then refused to touch her with more than a teasing stroke of his fingers until she gave in and fucked him. She levered herself up on her elbows and used her body's new weight and strength to thrust into him. House was nearly crushed, but he couldn't stop urging her to go harder with what little breath he had left. A couple of sessions like that were enough to get him through all the mess and irritation, especially since orgasms seemed to be the best possible cure for cramps. Well, orgasms and all the Midol he cared to dry-swallow. And he had a feeling that he wasn't going to be that regular, what with the drugs and his age. He was determinedly not contemplating hot flashes. Breasts were one thing; menopause quite another.

And maybe--just maybe--House had started this whole thing at the hospital, by feeling Wilson up at the first opportunity, in front of as many of his shell-shocked colleagues as possible. But he loved the result. He loved the freedom. (He loved the daily quickies in Cuddy's office.) He loved saying what he wanted, and then _getting_ what he wanted, and then getting it again and again and again until he was aching and shaky and too exhausted to come even once more.

And Foreman, by changing back, had ruined all his fun.

\--

"I am not letting you anywhere near me with an LP needle," Foreman spat. He was wearing a hospital gown that didn't close in the back (House had made sure of that), and he had his back to the wall. That might have been an effective tactic, except that all the walls in the hospital were made of glass. House couldn't benefit at the moment, seeing as he was the one doing the cornering, but there were at least two orderlies and a nurse standing in the hallway who were getting the view of a lifetime. The nurse seemed particularly impressed.

House grinned, because he'd had his chance earlier. He'd sent Cameron and Chase in, demanding tests Foreman would never agree to, and he'd stood just behind a pillar outside, waiting for the perfect moment for a glimpse of Foreman's ass.

It wasn't--nothing could be--the ass he'd had as a woman, high and tight and round, that swung when he walked like a hypnotist's pendulum, and was twice as mesmerizing. But it was still spectacular, muscular and firm in the way that just invited speculation on how it would look when Foreman was fucking someone, clenching rhythmically with every thrust.

The best part was, that wasn't all you could see. House's eyes had widened when he'd caught his first glimpse, and then he'd craned his neck, without even glancing up the hall to see if he was going to get caught checking out Foreman's cock. God, he was even bigger than Cuddy. Which, House thought, was saying something.

"Nnrgh," he'd said, and wandered off to find Cuddy, for a comparative observation.

Breaks were very important to his diagnostic process.

But he'd come back, refreshed and ready to tackle the problem (and Foreman) from a new angle. "We need data," he said. "Wilson's not going to not turn back on his own."

"Maybe he won't!" Foreman said, then frowned as he got caught up in House's double negative. "What if Chase is right?"

"You mean, we get whatever we _wish_ for?" House said, staring at Foreman steadily because even rolling his eyes would have been giving _that_ suggestion too much credit. Also because he still couldn't get over the way Foreman's face hadn't _changed_, exactly, but had become less gracile, his jaw heavier, his neck more muscular. He wasn't the only one, anymore, but somehow Debbie's reversion to petite blondeness and perky C-cups felt more like a challenge than a point of fascination.

"It makes as much sense as the rest of it," Foreman said. His glare certainly hadn't changed. "I'm putting my clothes back on."

That was just as disappointing as the last time House had heard him say that.

\--

House hated Wilson being pregnant. Not because he was pregnant, or because he and Cameron kept getting their weepy on all over the hospital, or because Wilson was constantly in a state of freakout (the day after Fredericks had turned back, losing his baby in the process as if it had never existed, was particularly bad), but just because it meant that the hospital was getting back to normal. To _work_. One look at Wilson seemed to convince a hell of a lot of the staff that they'd rather be men again, and once the ratio tipped in that direction, suddenly a lot of men went back to being women, like some sort of cockblocking cosmic balance.

"Not today," Cuddy said one afternoon, waving House away without even looking up. "Can you cover a few hours in the clinic? You would not believe how many people have cancelled cancelling their vacations now that they aren't worried about their families seeing them."

House stared at her. Cuddy was still every inch the tall, dark, and handsome he'd come to rely on, and he'd spent most of the morning (between pointless, fruitless, and increasingly frustrating differentials) imagining the precise shade of pleasure-blown smug on her face when he tore her pants down and sank (as gracefully as possible) to his knees.

Possibly, it had been a bit more than imagining. Possibly, he'd had his blinds closed (everyone had learned not to walk in) and his hand up his skirt (just as a delaying tactic; nothing like a bit of a tease to get the party started). _Possibly_ he couldn't imagine a worse day for Cuddy to pretend that everything was _normal_.

"Are you _kidding_?" he said, his higher voice suddenly soaring into a whine. He'd stopped noticing how he sounded, but right now he knew he was tipping the scales towards ridiculous, and he hated that.

"House," Cuddy said, with a tinge of 'let's not get hysterical here' chauvinism. "Do you realize that we haven't admitted, treated, or discharged _one patient_ in a timely manner for the past three months?"

House pouted. He knew it looked good, too. It wasn't quite Wilson's doe-eyed panic, but it had never once failed to get Cuddy's thoughts going in the proper direction, namely, the application of that pout to her cock. And it seemed to be having the desired effect, too, because she stood up, pushed him back against the cabinets, and loomed over him. Her eyes were dark, and she smiled like the rebel badboy in ever movie House had ever loved. When she kissed him, House might have let out a soft, whimpering sigh, because at least this hadn't changed. He tipped his head back and his hips forward, letting Cuddy have her manly way with him.

Which was, of course, when she leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Clinic, or you don't get any."

House grit his teeth and tried his best not to melt into her. It was a bad habit, but the melting thing had never been a problem before. "God, you're evil."

"And you love it," Cuddy said, smirking at him. She walked back to her desk, her erection only hindering her slightly.

"You _would_ develop self-control," he complained.

"And you wouldn't. And one of us had to." Cuddy shook her head. "Tonight," she promised.

House considered the merits of whining, "But _tonight_ isn't _now_," and finally landed on the 'sounding like a two-year-old won't help you get laid' side of the argument. With a snort, he stalked out of Cuddy's office, swinging his hips to show her what she'd be missing (and to get what friction he could; his inner thighs were already slippery, and going commando didn't exactly _help_\--fuck, he needed to get back to his office and finish himself off, and fingers weren't going to be enough by a long shot, and all of his favourite vibrators were at home, and this was starting to get seriously depressing).

Only Cuddy's regretful _nnrgh_, behind him, really made the situation bearable at all.

\--

He ran into Foreman in the clinic. Literally; Foreman was coming around a corner, frowning at a chart, and House was looking over his shoulder to make sure Cuddy was being properly chastened by a bad case of blue balls. They collided, and House nearly toppled over (he'd had most of his weight on his cane), but Foreman caught him by his elbows and held him up until he managed to get his feet under him again.

Not that House was very quick to steady himself. Foreman's arms felt _very_ nice under his hands, and House hadn't noticed before but he was now just an inch shorter than Foreman, so that they fit together disturbingly well when Foreman was standing up straight and House was struggling with the whole not-melting thing. It really, really wasn't working.

Maybe today wasn't a total wash after all. "Thanks," he breathed, trying to coordinate the exact way that Wilson did all his flirting with a shy smile and a flicker of his eyelashes.

Foreman laughed in his face.

House glared at him, rather disgruntled. And horny. "What?" he snapped.

"_Thanks_?" Foreman repeated. "Are the hormones finally affecting your brain?"

House sneered instead of dignifying that with a reply. Foreman was still holding him, almost as if he didn't notice that he was doing it. House shifted his weight forward, because if he didn't start getting some friction soon, he was going to explode from frustration. Foreman's suit brushed against his breasts, and through the silk top he was wearing, it felt shivery and burning hot at the same time. The feeling spread through his body, heightening just how good everything _else_ felt--having a pair of strong arms around him, the closeness of Foreman's mouth, the slightest stirring of Foreman's cock against his mons when he pushed his hips forward.

Foreman grinned down at him. House knew he was blushing (in this body, when was he _not_ blushing?) but he also knew that look in Foreman's eyes, the completely self-confident belief in just how good he was. And House could admit, when Foreman had been a woman, he hadn't exactly dragged down the proceedings.

Except, when Foreman's low baritone rumbled next to his ear, what he said was, "I'm not going to fuck you, House."

"Oh, come _on_," House said, rolling his eyes and stomping back a step so it didn't look like Foreman was making him _swoon_, for God's sake.

Foreman let go of his elbows and laughed at him--_again_\--before bending down to pick up the chart he'd dropped.

House goosed him in revenge.

\--

Getting ditched twice in twenty minutes was hell on the ego. Not to mention the fact that House was _still_ horny, with an uncomfortable, unsettled _want_ that pulsed higher with every heartbeat.

He swung by Wilson's office (at least he'd finally admitted the clean room wasn't helping), but Wilson was having a long and heartfelt talk with Cameron, both of them sitting on the couch, holding hands and looking deeply into each other's eyes. House gagged when he saw them from the balcony and made a run for it.

Well, a very determined hobble, anyway.

"Chase!" he snapped, sticking his head into the conference room. Chase looked up, wide-eyed, from whatever piece of trivia he was working on. He looked like a blow-up doll: all wide, vacant eyes, and wet, pink, open mouth, and those _breasts_.

House glared at him. "You're a good doctor," he said. "I'm glad you're one of my fellows."

Chase's eyes and mouth both got even rounder. But he didn't _do_ anything. House rolled his eyes, crossed the room, and kissed him, hard. He let out a short moan, because, _finally_, and he reached a hand out to cup the promised land.

"Wait," Chase gasped, grabbing his hand. His high, breathy, Australian sex-voice was driving House _insane_. "Are you just using me?"

"Yes!" House shouted.

Chase blinked at him, his eyes welling up, his lower lip trembling. Even his golden tresses looked like they might start sobbing in the next three seconds.

Oh, _hell_.

House fled.

God, he needed to get _fucked_.

\--

The next few days were even worse. Foreman had taken to leaving his suit jacket on a chair in the conference room, and as the day went on, he'd loosen his tie and then throw it over the jacket, undoing the buttons at the top of his shirt, until House could see the notch above his collarbones.

He took to bringing test results to House _personally_, leaning over his shoulder as he pointed out just how much nothing they showed. Didn't show. Whatever.

Then he got it into his head to start playing at being some kind of gentleman. He opened doors and rested one warm hand on the small of House's back when he walked through, as if House was careless enough to let the door smack him on the ass or catch his cane on the threshold, as if he hadn't spent the last six years as a cripple learning exactly how _not_ to do that.

House might have thought Foreman was turning into Wilson--Wilson as he had been, the guy who could teach a masterclass on flirting and then turn around with a gobsmacked stare and insist that he loved his wife and it was just _conversation_, House, can't a guy talk to a woman without it being about sex?

In short, no. There was no such thing. And Foreman knew it. He grinned at House, caught his gaze and quirked an eyebrow, letting House know that as far as Foreman was concerned, this was all a joke--and one that flattered his stupid, over-inflated ego.

And it was definitely about sex.

House wasn't going to stand for it.

"You're flirting with me!" he accused, catching Foreman alone in the conference room and poking him in the sternum with the tip of his cane.

Foreman folded his hands together behind his head and sat back, chuckling. Also leaving himself wide open to any more cane-retribution House cared to deliver, almost as if he knew House wouldn't knock his breath out with a stab to his xiphoid process. "You noticed, huh?"

"And you have no intention of following through!"

Another smug eyebrow raise. "Nope."

House scowled ferociously at him. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite the scowl he'd always managed before; he didn't have quite the eyebrows for it, and his jaw wasn't heavy enough to set stubbornly. It would have to do, though. "You're trying to get revenge because I seduced you," he said. "You're still upset that you didn't have as much willpower as you liked to think."

"Uh, I don't think this is about _my_ willpower, House." Foreman smirked, clearly enjoying himself. At House's expense.

This meant war.

House levelled a considering stare at Foreman, then lowered his cane to the floor. "You're a hypocrite," he said.

Foreman tilted his head. "Excuse me?"

"You think you've won, when _actually_ you're just not willing to go as far as it takes."

Foreman snorted, but it wasn't as derisive as usual. House felt a flicker of triumph. Hooked. "Reverse psychology isn't going to work," he said, but there was a crack in his confidence.

"It's not reverse psychology." House tossed his hair back (the stuff was always falling in his face) and stuck out one hip. He was wearing his best bra today, and another of Cuddy's thongs that gave pretty much everything away--to the right person. "I _destroyed_ you. You couldn't even _move_. You _begged_. And now you think _you_ have bragging rights?"

Foreman was blinking, panic starting to bleed through. He looked for rescue, but the conference room stayed empty except for the two of them. House grinned. Oh, yeah, he had the upper hand. And he intended on keeping it--until the right moment, of course.

"Maybe I should just stick with Cuddy," he said. "Have I _told_ you the things she can do? --And I'm talking hands free, here."

A flicker of a frown crossed Foreman's face. House's grin widened, much as he was trying to hold it back. "And she's hung like a racehorse," he added, twisting the knife.

Foreman rolled his eyes. "You're not going to shut up about this, are you?"

"I was thinking of taking out an ad in the Times, actually," House said, with all the gleeful insouciance that came from knowing he was totally going to get his way.

Foreman stood up. He managed to make it look positively dangerous, his shoulders tensing as he leaned his fists on the glass tabletop. "So I'm going to have to _make_ you shut up?"

House meant to say, "If you think you _can_\--" but before he could get the words out, Foreman had circled the table and kissed him.

He was pretty sure he'd meant to think _finally_, too, but as it turned out, thinking wasn't very high up on his current list of priorities. Foreman's kiss wasn't hard and angry, the way House had expected. Instead, it was disconcertingly _thorough_, with insistent attention paid to every single detail. Foreman tangled one hand tightly in House's long, wavy hair, and the other one snuck down his back to grab his ass, both of them holding him immovably, insistently in place.

House happily abandoned himself to the moment. He wasn't without a few tricks of his own, which he proceeded to demonstrate for Foreman's benefit. But he could only turn half his mind to reducing Foreman to a gibbering mess; the other half was completely focused on how _big_ Foreman was--taller, stronger, and overwhelmingly _present_. House gasped into the kiss, wriggling even closer, tracing his fingertips and then his hands over every part of Foreman that he could reach. Science, he thought dimly, was so cool--he could feel the differences in skeleton and musculature so much better than he could see it on an MRI.

But it was more than that, crazily, stupidly more. He felt like he was being lifted up and carried along, out of control and loving it. He was wet and horny and eager, already moving his hips against Foreman's, helped along by the urge of Foreman's hand on his ass. Pleasure bolted through him when he realized Foreman was getting hard; suddenly he _really_ had something to rub his clit against. He broke the kiss, panting. He lifted his hips again, trying to get _closer_, to get all that friction positioned exactly right, to make the heat coursing through his body flare up out of the swirling tide of female libido into the sharp, perfect pleasure that meant he was going to _come_.

Which was when Foreman decided that they were both overdressed.

It wasn't that House disagreed--the way he was getting Foreman's stupid shirt off and his stupid belt unbuckled--tighty-whiteys? seriously?--was proof of that, but God, the man had the worse sense of timing _in the world_. House pulled his briefs down, dragging them over his cock, enjoying the way Foreman grunted almost in surprise when House wrapped a hand around him and distracted him in the best possible way while Foreman struggled with his bra clasp. When he finally had it off, he proceeded to show that he knew exactly what it was like to have breasts himself, and exactly why House loved his so much. He bent down, trailing sucking bites down from House's throat to his sternum, down between his breasts, while his fingers teased the undersides before moving to his nipples.

House tightened his hand on Foreman's cock, gasping lightly as Foreman tormented him, licking and sucking and best of all, _not stopping_. If this was revenge, he thought he could handle it. He let his hand sink between his thighs, slipping across his labia, gathering the moisture and then spreading it across Foreman's cock. He leaned back far enough to watch Foreman's eyes, the pupils blown, the frantic look of pleasure on his face, and then he leaned in and said, "It was reverse psychology after all."

Foreman gaped at him for a minute, and then he glared. "God, you're infuriating."

"Well, if you want to stop--" House gave a particularly inventive twist of his grip. "Prove how much willpower you have--"

Foreman looked like he didn't know whether to moan or throw him across the room. "Fuck you, House."

House smirked. "If you insist."

Foreman got his hands under House's thighs, hitching up his skirt and lifting him in a single movement. House's back pressed against the wall, the rest of him supported by Foreman's grip and the adamant press of his erection. House's hips twitched forward, and Foreman responded, until they had a swaying, hitching rhythm started. Foreman breathed, "Yeah, good," and then kissed him. House took what satisfaction he could from the fact that he wasn't the only one affected. He kissed back as dirty as he knew how, insinuating a million suggestive promises with his tongue. His orgasm was building again, and if Foreman stopped before this was over, then House was going to...something. Wreak terrible revenge. Very important. Think up details later.

Foreman lowered him slightly, the head of his cock teasing his cunt, already wet and slippery and aching for it.

"Ready?"

House rolled his eyes, trying not to squirm--the last thing he wanted was an embarrassing fall right now. "_Ob_viously," he said, and then he _stopped breathing_.

"_Fuck_," Foreman muttered, near his ear. His shoulders were bunched up, trembling, as he pushed inside. House groped with one hand for the nearest filing cabinet, gripping so hard that it hurt. He'd never felt so _filled_, an enormous, almost-painful sensation, but his muscles contracted sharply, and Foreman eased in further, and then it felt amazing.

He didn't even know what Foreman was _doing_. It wasn't quite thrusting, it was more--oh fuck--_shifting_. As if it was a crime to move more than a quarter-inch at a time. And he couldn't exactly complain, because all his usual sarcastic comments had been short-circuited by how _good_ it felt.

And Foreman was still smirking. He was straining, sweat shining on his chest and arms as he held House up, and he was panting lightly, but nothing at all like he was out of control. More like he could do this all day long and never, ever get tired. House didn't know whether to hate him or to demand that they get married while it was still legal.

"You're a little--on the slow side, aren't you?" he asked, teeth gritted.

"It just takes a while," Foreman said, "to teach you patience."

House settled on hate. Definitely hate. It was probably easier than wrestling Chase and Wilson into matching bridesmaid dresses, anyway.

Foreman--_shifted_\--again, and House let out a disgustingly desperate moan. He was _not_ going to writhe. Well--maybe a little. And it looked like he'd have to take matters into his own hands, anyway, because he was not going to wait on Foreman's probably non-existent mercy. Just a touch, his fingers against his clit, and the orgasm would probably feel like getting run over by a freight train. He slid a hand down his stomach, his fingertips tracing half-tickling lines of sensitivity across his skin. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Almost there.

"Mm-mmm." Foreman caught his wrist, almost gently, and pushed his hand back to the wall, holding it there as firmly as a promise. "Hands free, right, House?"

He couldn't believe Foreman had taken that little dig _seriously_. "Do you know how few women can come from penetration alone?" he demanded, trying to come up with a statistic that proved his point without sounding like total bullshit. Not that he minded bullshitting, but it might help him win on logic points, considering his body was apparently entirely in favour of letting Foreman torture him for his own sadistic reasons.

"Maybe," Foreman said, "you'll get lucky."

And then he pushed forward--oh _God_\--and House couldn't get purchase to push _back_, so he wrapped his good leg around Foreman's ass and pulled him as close as possible, his heel digging into his back. That close, he could--just--rub his clit against Foreman's body, and that, combined with the way his cock was hitting House's g-spot with every thrust, was finally, _finally_ enough, and he was coming, clenching down, his muscles contracting around Foreman's cock, and Foreman kept rocking into him, pinching his nipple with one hand and muttering breathless encouragement, "_Come_ on, House, yeah, you bastard--"

The words faded out into a hoarse groan, and then Foreman was fucking him hard, up against the wall, pounding into him. House held on, and this time Foreman didn't even notice when he brought a hand down to rub his clit, so that he came again almost the same moment that Foreman froze and then jerked against him, coming hotly inside him.

A moment later, he nearly dropped House, panting as he lowered him awkwardly. House sank down into the nearest chair, since neither of his legs was capable of supporting him right now. "I win," he said, drifting on a tide of afterglow.

Foreman snorted. He was still half-hard, panting, bare-chested, his pants hopelessly wrinkled and stained and riding low on his hips. He looked like he could go another round the second House had recovered. Maybe, he thought, rolling his shoulders, in an actual bed.

Maybe later. He hurt, the way the best workouts hurt afterwards, and he felt vastly, smugly satisfied; in short, he was fucked out. "God, I love being a woman."

"That's not news, House."

"You love it too," House said complacently.

Foreman smirked to himself and let out a quiet chuckle. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you say." He started gathering up their clothes.

House eyed him appreciatively when he bent over. Might be even better than lesbian sex with Cuddy, if she turned back.

Although, of course, he'd have to check, just to make sure.

Science demanded it.

 

_end_


End file.
